Wine Red
by Bandtrees
Summary: Trager was thankful the dosage he'd given Pauline was enough. Dealing with a cornered and violent Murkoff Mitigation Officer, right in the open of his dining room, wasn't ideal. (Reupload from Ao3, originally posted on 12/25/19)


Trager was thankful the dosage he'd given Pauline was enough. Dealing with a cornered and violent Murkoff Mitigation Officer, right in the open of his dining room, wasn't ideal. Despite what Pauline would reasonably assume upon the realization she'd been drugged, Trager had no intention of doing anything sexual with her — though that's the story he'd rather have her believe.

Honestly, he just couldn't have her snooping around. He wasn't stupid — Trager knew Pauline didn't exactly have an interest in men, and asking him out in the middle of a workplace investigation made it abundantly clear she saw this as nothing more than a way to cross off (or confirm) her suspicions. Having her awake and alert to spy around every corner was a risk he wasn't willing to take.

Besides, he'd seen the files Jeremy Blaire tried to hide from him. Employees were no safer than patients in terms of becoming cattle to the slaughter for Murkoff — they had their eyes on him for his addiction, no doubt, and that wasn't even scraping his workplace conduct. Being pals with Jeremy wouldn't spare him from being tossed aside when the time came — hell, his friend would probably be on the other end of the gun.

At least Mount Massive's employers didn't seem to catch onto his pastimes with the few patients he did come in contact with — or, rather, they didn't care. Nobody in that building cared about an inmate unless he was some success story or other. Trager remembered the name and face of the man he'd meticulously butchered in his own cell, but the orderlies didn't seem to.

For the longest time, he was certain this would never have consequences — Variants were the lowest pillar of society, long before the experiments. Nobody cared about a few forgotten lunatics, much less more than _him _, but that wasn't what was catching up to him. His treatment of Michelle Haas, of all things, was, and the woman in question would be damning them both to the Engine with her big mouth.

With an unconscious Pauline before him, surrounded by splattered red wine and broken glass, Trager almost wished it was his work fling instead — God, how he'd love to cut her up for even _thinking _she could rat him out — but beggars couldn't be choosers. All he needed tonight was the opportunity to be taken to the Engine on his own terms — not Michelle's, not Jeremy's, and certainly not either of the Pauls' — and he would much rather go down in infamy among Mount Massive staff as a twisted killer than a simple sleaze.

He had been correct to assume in their first meeting that Pauline took good care of herself. He knew she was fit, but getting to observe her as he propped her up in the wine-stained chair to tie her down was something else completely. Even through the modest suit, he could tell she was toned — her rank in Murkoff was nothing to sneeze at, and Trager supposed physical fitness was required when dealing with the powerful enemies the company made, but still, he was thankful she'd be restrained — leaving his position bloodied and missing clumps of hair in her fury wouldn't be a good look.

Pauline had always looked so sure of herself — so _smug _, and it infuriated Trager to no end, but the sudden fear in her eyes when she began to stumble and the pained expression as she slept were beautiful hints of what was to come. He'd crush that smug smirk right out of her throat, carve the knowing shine in her eyes away. Trager couldn't _stand _people who thought they were better than him, and finally, he'd get to slaughter one of those people like he'd fantasized about so many times.

His dull and drab wine cellar was the perfect place for Pauline — a humid, dusty place drenched in the overwhelming scent of alcohol, likely nowhere near the interrogation room or action-packed shootout his victim would've _liked _to die in. She may have been Murkoff brass, but here, Pauline Glick was nothing more than a pig for the butcher's. Trager watched her sleep, grinning at every troubled twitch of her restrained limbs. He was no stranger to the drug he'd used — she wouldn't rise for another forty-five minutes at the earliest — but he had no interest in doing anything to her comatose form except tightening the ropes, just in case.

He needed her awake. He needed to _break _her. As much as the anticipation was killing him — as it would her! Good one, Rick — preparation was important. He'd studied countless surgical manuals, with equipment either bought online or 'borrowed' from the sublevels of the asylum at the ready. His cellar was no operating theater, and tied to a chair wasn't a very proper way to handle patients, but it would have to do. In the end, study wasn't his goal — it was making the Mitigation Officer suffer, and he had more than enough methods at his disposal for that.

He could see how long she'd endure without kidneys, or count the seconds she'd breathe and sputter for with a sliced throat, but there was no pain in that. It would be over in an instant, and that wasn't fun at all! Trager mulled over his options, watching for any sign of rousing in Pauline as he quietly confiscated her phone and, more importantly, her gun. He _tsk _'d in disapproval — she must've taken him for some kind of idiot to believe this wasn't a ploy for information when she had _that _.

Trager simply pocketed them both. The gun would come in handy, both as torture and a potential last resort. Following a final once-over of the cellar, he finally heard a groan from Pauline, and wasted no time in making his way over — a pair of scissors in hand as he did.

He wanted his face to be the first thing she saw, and as Pauline's dark eyes fluttered open, she jolted at the sight of the executive grinning widely at her. Before she could say anything, only aware enough to faintly attempt to wriggle in her ropes, she was met with a harsh punch to her lower jaw — Trager had to resist the urge to go in with the scissors. Not yet.

"Sleeping on the job, are you, sweetheart?" His voice came out rougher, _angrier _, than he expected it to, but he supposed it made sense. Anger had been bubbling within him from the moment Pauline and her partner stepped into his office, with their patronizing gestures and shared looks, and Pauline was _worse _. Finally, he didn't have to pretend to like being around this _bitch _, and seeing her eyes water with the blow brought the only joy she'd given him all day.

Pauline sputtered in the sudden pain, on top of the confusion of only now comprehending where she was, but her expression remained stern. Through the coughing, still reeling from the punch, she managed a "What the fuck—?!" Blinking away the involuntary tears, her eyes narrowed when she finally saw her captor, going from him to the ropes keeping her wrists and ankles firmly in place against the dining room chair… "what the _fuck _did you do to me?"

"Nothing indecent — I'm a gentleman, y'know?" Trager's laugh only seemed to infuriate her more, and the struggling growing as she spotted his scissors didn't go unnoticed. "Got this place all fancied up for ya, special tools 'n' everything." He gestured with the blade to the tray of surgical equipment atop one of the wine shelves, before turning it to Pauline.

The scissors opened, and he could feel her breathing hitch as he traced them up the side of her neck, stopping at her jawline. "I know how to treat my guests, always been proud of my hospitality. One of the reasons I wanted to be a doctor when I was a little Rick, but, ah…" he shrugged, trailing off for a moment. "Already told you that story, huh. You were listening, right?"

Pauline didn't seem particularly impressed, nor as panicky as he would've wished. "That's what this is?" She stated, and her deadpan tone made Trager want to drive those scissors into her jugular. Her voice lowered, slightly muffled as his hold on them tightened. "You're not the first freak I've dealt with, and you sure as hell won't be the last."

"Oh, but I will be. Your partner's not comin' for ya, dear. Neither's Murkoff. Y'know how replaceable staff is over there, right?" He could hear Pauline's sharp inhale as the first cut was made, pressing the scissors against her skin. "Hell, I'm sure Paul's plenty capable on his own. He can work just fine without you. 'S just like I said…"

A sudden gasp of pain followed the blade hitting bone.

"...any weakness to a corporation's gotta be dealt with. You're fine at your job, sure, but now you've got dirt on another employee. Can't have you running around with my funny li'l secret, can ya?" Trager laughed bitterly — it was just how everything played out with Michelle, and the only reprieve in that situation was the knowledge she would be punished, too.

Pauline said nothing, the blade keeping her jaw firmly shut.

"I'm not as stupid as you want me to be, either." He continued, leaning in closer as the jovial lift to his voice faded. The scissors were finally pulled away, small beads of blood splattering Pauline's pristine dress shirt. "Must think you're so smart, officer, but I know what you and your friend got in mind for me. I'm a suspect. You heard on the grapevine my shitshow with Miss Haas."

If looks could kill, Trager and his next hundred generations would've been struck dead on the spot, but as she had no such power, Pauline was only met with a smug grin as he reached for another blade.

"You wanted to turn me in, but you're not the one in control here. _You _don't get to say what the truth is." He pulled a large knife down, feeling the edge with a fingernail. "And let's face it — I don't, either. Nobody but the man at the top can do that."

He could feel her attempting to pull away as he reached for her hand, but all that did was irritate her skin. The ropes were tight, and struggling did nothing as the knife's cold metal grazed the base of her wrist. With deceptive softness, stroking her skin as he did, he pushed her sleeve up. "But what I _can _do is make it more interesting for us both. Go out with a bang, as they say. Or perhaps…"

Readying the knife, with one hand on the handle and the other on the blade, looking Pauline in the eye, Trager suddenly raised it high above his head and brought it down with a _thwack! _Icy composure cracking with a bone in her wrist, Pauline shrieked in agony. It was like music to Trager's ears, and he could tell she didn't register his words when he continued.

"...a _crunch _would be more appropriate."

Blood was beginning to bubble around the blade, the knife having lodged itself partway through her wrist. As Trager twisted it, only adding to her pain, Pauline finally managed to speak. "Sick _fuck _." Her wounded hand shook as she panted. "You get off on this?"

"Not particularly." He winked, and chuckled at her visible repulsion. "Just enjoy giving people their just desserts. It's sorta like what you do." He spoke casually as ever, even as he turned the blade to begin carving at the flesh of Pauline's wrist.

She was doing what she could to not look at the motion, fists clenched as her stare remained fixed on Trager. As icy as she tried to make it, Trager saw her eyelid twitch in pain. "Not gonna… get it." She shook her head. "Won't beg for a slimy bastard like you," she spat, with as much threat as someone unable to move could manage, and her voice trembled with conviction when she added, "you really think you're doing something, huh?"

For a while, Trager said nothing, dark eyes watching his victim's arm as he slowly flayed it. Flayed perhaps wasn't the best word — it was not simply skin being pulled away, but a strip of flesh itself. Eventually, it could no longer be gritted and bore through — nerve endings were being severed, torn to shreds, pain receptors his victim's mind never thought to exist blaring like sirens. Hearing even the cold, ruthless Pauline Glick cry out in one of the worst pains Trager knew to cause reminded him why he was doing this.

Finally, he pulled away, and half of Pauline's forearm had been carved into. Skin and sinew were limp, the pain of the ripped muscles one of the most excruciating things she'd ever experienced. Hot blood dripped down her arm, and the gash in her jaw felt like a mosquito bite in comparison to this. Pauline threw her head back, eyes watering and jaw clenched, clearly biting back the pain.

"I mean…" Trager hummed, running his fingers down the damaged flesh, just to make her ache more. "Definitely seems like I am, right?" Her arm was reminiscent of one of the Variants' — bar the stitches. There would be no repairing here, as entertaining as putting her back together to be his surgery dummy until she passed would be.

"_ Fffuck off _…" Pauline hissed out between frantic gasps for air as shock and blood loss threatened to knock her unconscious. At least she was just as determined to see this through to the end as he was. It'd be all the more disappointing if she passed out on him.

Even so, Trager had his ways of keeping her awake. Digging the knife in again, without any warning save for an anticipatory glint in his eye as he watched Pauline's expression, the chunk of bloody skin and muscle that had been her forearm was gripped and torn away with a yank of his hand. There was no scream, but the glazed look in her eyes as pained tears began to fall was more than satisfying enough for Trager.

"Y'see, ideally, I'd get to all your limbs like this, but that's a big chunk of skin. Can't have you bleeding out on me too quickly." Really, he just liked to hear himself talk. He had so much to say, and the bored expression Pauline was trying to hide all day was one of the many, _many _infuriating things about her.

Breathing hard, Pauline's unfocused eyes were followed to her bloodied arm. The gaping wound was like a crater — not deep enough for visible bone, but it still burned. A hunk of skin was missing, grasped in Trager's hand. A cut on her jaw would heal, but this, without medical assistance (which he didn't intend on giving her), would permanently disfigure.

It did, however, loosen the ropes' grip. Even in her mutilated state, Pauline knew to think resourcefully. The ropes touching her exposed muscle brought another flare of agony, but with her mangled hand, she was able to slip through one of her binds.

When he saw her arm moving freely, something consumed Trager — she couldn't ruin his plans, couldn't, couldn't, _couldn't _, there was so much _more _he had to _do to her _— and all he registered was a swing of his arm, followed by a wheeze from Pauline and a wet _crunch _beneath his knife.

"_ What're you, a coward?! _"

And when his fury cleared, she was still. Her hand was pinned to her shoulder by the blade, Trager surprised by his own strength to find how deeply his weapon had embedded itself. Part of it had to do with its sheer size, but Pauline's palm had been impaled through, and the stab wound in her shoulder it must have left was no doubt just as brutal.

It seemed that had been too much for her, as she didn't move. _Shit _. Shit, shit, shit. Like always, Trager's anger had gotten the best of him. "You're better than that, officer! Come _on _!" He barked, slapping her across the face once more, but yielding no response. Her face, streaked with tears, showed no signs of movement, only hung in defeat.

Defeat was what he wanted, but not this early — god _damn _it Rick, no, no, _no _— and Trager pulled the knife out, allowing it to clatter to the floor as he balled Pauline's jacket in his fists, shaking her against the chair. "You don't get to quit! This is _my _time, _MINE—! _"

Still, nothing. For what felt like an eternity, Trager stood there seething, hands trembling with just how hard he was gripping his victim's collar. Eventually, he let go, roughly pushing himself away like the body of Pauline Glick was nothing more than a repulsive piece of trash. His breathing was hard, though he hadn't done much physical activity, and as his head cleared, he was forced to accept his plan had failed.

He was always too enthusiastic to cut corners, take shortcuts. It was his job, after all, but in his rage, Pauline barely lasted over five minutes. It was infuriating, but… it didn't matter. He'd had his fun. This was enough — picturing the look on Paul Marion's face when he'd find his partner butchered made the dissatisfaction begin to fade. It still wasn't ideal, but he'd done enough.

As he untied Pauline, Trager could've sworn he felt breath on his shoulder, but no more came. The ghostly wheeze of the newly dead, and nothing more.

And then he felt her shift, and saw her good hand reaching towards the discarded knife.

Before he could properly react, she plunged it into his stomach, and the pain was so much worse than her reactions to the torture would have him believe. Trager was unable to stop the yelp that escaped his mouth, and he could feel the muscles in his midsection splinter and tear as the knife was roughly yanked out. He stumbled backwards, hitting the back of his head hard on the cellar floor.

Another stab, and he could feel himself start to black out — he was taller than Pauline was, but far thinner, far frailer. As his vision swam with pain, he could just make out his victim, turning his weapon against him the same way he intended with her gun.

"Sss—" Her voice shook, delirious with blood loss as she stepped over him on trembling legs. "Sleep. S—stay the f-_ fuck _down." It lacked the stern, commanding energy it always did, but the seriousness of Pauline's words was emphasized when Trager began to feel around for her gun, only to be met with a hard stomp to his palm. He could hear the splintering of bones in his hand against her heel, and bitterly thought that this would be his personal payback.

Control had been taken from him, and all he could do as he lay on the ground and bleed was hope she spare him.

—

Pauline couldn't move her wounded wrist, which made fumbling among wine bottles to locate her gun and phone all the harder. She could feel herself fading in and out of consciousness, barely able to support herself on her own two legs, but every movement of the exposed, bloodied arm muscle — not to mention the stabs in her hand and shoulder — brought another flash of pain to keep her from slipping away.

She wasn't going to die here, and she sure as hell wasn't going to give that asshole the satisfaction of killing her. Playing dead took resolve, but deception was her entire job description. Despite the heat of her still bleeding wounds, she felt chilled, and when she finally grabbed her phone, it almost fell from her hands with how slick with blood her touch was.

Marion. She needed to call him. Get help.

"Really think you did something, huh?"

A choked, yet smug as ever, voice sounded beneath her, but Pauline did what she could to focus on dialing her partner. "Shut up. Sssshut up before I stomp your balls in."

No response, save for pained heaving. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Trager roll over, clutching his stomach wounds. She couldn't afford to listen to him, as much as she felt like crushing his hand again. Murkoff would give the killer his just desserts anyway, if the prison system didn't.

Finally, she could hear Paul's tired voice on the other end of the line, barely able to lift her phone to her ear to catch his sluggish "what is it?", Alice adding something muffled in the background. Pauline could feel her legs failing beneath her, and all she could get out in response to Paul was a pained wheeze.

"Glick?"

"Ma— Marion… _fuck… _" Not getting straight to the point was unlike her, but now she wasn't in any direct danger, everything seemed to hit at once, and Pauline was doing what she could to not double over. "Gh—"

"Glick? Pauline, hey, stay with me, what's going on? Are you hurt?"

"Get me." Pauline choked out, bringing her still-bleeding hand and arm to her chest to press against her jacket. It was no tourniquet, but she couldn't exactly wrap a bandage in this state, even if she had one. The fabric against exposed tissue stung, eliciting a pained gasp, which couldn't have helped the worrying picture Paul was painting in his head. "Get me, now."

Likely realizing she wasn't in any condition to answer questions, Paul's answer was an uneasy "I'm on it.", though not without frantic apologies to Alice for hanging up on the video call that must have been interrupted. With that, Pauline allowed herself to collapse to her knees, not registering that she hadn't ended her own call until her partner spoke again —"It's gonna be okay, I'm coming over, just don't hang up, okay?"

Pauline nodded, bringing her phone back to her ear. "He's a killer. Roofied me… c—cut me up." Deep breaths, deep breaths. "I can't move my hand. There's blood everywhere."

"Jesus Christ." Paul was long since jaded to the things they encountered under Murkoff, but catching a serial killer and unwittingly sending your partner to be victim to one were very different. She could hear the horror in his voice, which she shouldn't have found comfort in, but all she could feel was the _relief _that someone was going to find her. "Can you stop the bleeding? Where's Mr. Trager?"

"Trying. He's passed out." She eyed Trager's unconscious form — he wouldn't stay that way for long — and painfully pushed herself to her feet, elbow against a shelf for support. "I'm gonna… get away from him. Not sure how much longer he'll be asleep for."

"Just… be careful, okay? I'll be there as soon as I can."

Her partner would come get her, and Trager would be behind bars, if not shoved into the machine Jeremy showed off, and she could put this behind her and get back to work. _Only a few more minutes now, _Pauline assured herself as she stumbled out of the cellar, still pressing hard against her wounds.

As she slammed the cellar door behind her, back against it, Paul continued to soothe her. Normally, she'd refuse such hospitality, or make fun of him for his soft nature, but now, there was nothing she needed more. At a point, the abortion pamphlet she stole from Trager's belongings fluttered out of her jacket, and with the pain from his torture still coursing through her veins, Pauline could barely fathom a time when the worst thing she had to worry about regarding this man was his illicit relationship with Michelle.

"Should I call the police?" At the moment, her partner was just trying to keep her awake and aware — Pauline could tell what he was doing, but that's not to say she wasn't thankful.

"No, I— Murkoff's gonna… deal with it." Phone on the counter, she'd put Paul on speaker to fashion a torn section of her blazer into a bandage for her hand until he arrived. Her arm was the worst wound, but at the very least had stopped bleeding.

"Okay," Paul didn't sound convinced, but that wasn't a debate Pauline wanted to have with him now, "okay, I'll be there in about a minute. Just hang tight, can you do that for me?"

Feeling her hand wrapping only made it ache more, and even against the dark fabric she could spot blood seeping through. She winced at the contact with the open stab. "I'm not your daughter, Marion..." Pauline hissed through the pain, quickly regretting her harsh tone and adding, less cruelly, "you sound more worked up about this than me."

"Right. Right, sorry, sorry, I just—"

"Worry." And he had plenty right to, given the situation. "I get it." As much as she tried to push it back, compartmentalize it into another day on the job, she was _dying _. Trager was so close to killing her — if his aim on the knife was a couple inches over, it would've pierced her heart and killed her for real.

Pauline really didn't want to think about that. Dying at the hands of Richard Trager, in all of his twisted glee, that shit-eating smile being the last thing she saw… giving him what he wanted… it all seemed to hit her immediately.

"'kay, Glick, I'm pulling up now."

Part of a job or not, she was close to being murdered this afternoon. Her damaged wrist could still barely move, and it likely wouldn't function the same ever again. Blood soaked through her dress shirt, and ugly dark bruises were beginning to form where Trager hit her.

She… oh, God.

When Paul entered, his eyes were wide with disbelief and horror at his partner's mutilation. She barely registered the sound of his shoes as he ran over to look at her closer, hands hesitant as if unsure he should be grabbing someone so damaged.

She had nearly been murdered for the sake of some sick asshole's need for attention, and he had almost _won. _He'd taken her flesh and blood and _conviction _with him, and as he lay bleeding in the cellar, she'd been put through so much worse. Never had she truly thought about what her job was putting her through — but here, she had no choice. Her life was nearly lost in whatever painful torture Trager would've devised, and for something as meaningless as an anonymous complaint about his department.

Pauline's tears were not of pain, but fear. Fear, and finally, as she realized she was free from this nightmare, relief. Despite her ordeal, no doubt the worst thing she'd experienced in her five years working at Murkoff, Pauline survived, and her attempted killer would face a fate worse than death.

That was all she needed to hear.

It was a rare gesture, but one she needed more than anything, when Pauline clutched her partner through the burning of her wounds and began to openly cry.


End file.
